How will she greet me—wearing her ladybug-printed apron? (Here, I could say, I can help you untie that.) Would she touch my arm, or my shirt over my heart again, as she flushed to the tip of her nose? Would she allow me to cut to the core of my questions—Are you with someone else now? And if the answer were no, could we swing our tired hands together as we made our way home? To her home in a literal sense, but also to the home I feel when we are together—the home she has written about in her journal. The home I can’t un-imagine us making.
